


Singer Salvage

by tikistitch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, also there's a gremlin, pretty much pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-26 17:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18183665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tikistitch/pseuds/tikistitch
Summary: Dean Winchester thought he just needed two things in life: classic cars and chili fries.  But then came the day Rufus Turner towed a demon-haunted Impala into Singer Salvage.





	Singer Salvage

A pair of hounds lay snoozing outside the back door of the small, neat auto repair shop. A man clad in overalls approached, his breath tracing fine clouds on the still chilly summer morning. 

One of the hounds stirred and rolled over as he passed by, exposing a patch of furry belly.

“You know I hate dogs, right?” 

Sighing, Dean bent down to scratch the offered tummy. His boss loved those damn dogs. “This doesn't mean we like each other.”

“You, kid, are nothin' but an old softie,” Bobby declared. Dean started. His old man had an awful habit of sneaking up behind him. 

Dean squinted up as the morning sun slanted over his boss's shoulder. Well, there was no denying it now. That didn't stop Dean. 

“More of a cat person,” he explained. “They don't like us, and we don't like them. It's honest.” Dean spread his hands, palms up, by way of demonstration. Scorch, the hound in question, sighed in satisfaction, wriggled and rolled over to spoon Brine, who had not stirred.

“You ain't foolin' no one. You know that, boy? Anywho, I need some consultation regardin' Sheriff Mills' vehicle. Came in yesterday while you were off. That is, if you ain't to busy sharin' philosophy on animal behavior?”

His knees gave a pop as Dean stood, wiping imaginary dust off his grey Singer Auto and Salvage dungarees. “Oh, Jody's been by? Well let's take a look.” Dean had a great deal of affection for their small town's officer of the law. She had helped him out of a jam or two. He followed Bobby through the back door, threading through the stacks of books piled up on the concrete floor in Bobby's cluttered office. First thing's first, of course, they plugged in the coffee pot to get a batch of Bobby's rocket fuel started. Dean hopped up to sit himself down on the counter. 

“Told you not to sit on that counter, boy,” Bobby fussed as the office filled with the rich aroma of the world's best damn coffee. 

“And I told you your couch is stacked high with all these damn books.” Dean swung his leg and felt something soft pressing on his shin. He reached back behind him, opened the cupboard and pulled out a sack of Milk Bones. “Now you know the rules,” he told the hounds, who of course had followed them inside. “Only one each.”

“For a man who don't like dogs, you spoil them,” Bobby huffed, handing over a big, steaming mug of mocha java. As the hounds lay, belly down, chomping, Dean closed his eyes and let the coffee's heat warm his hands, and the wonderful smell wander its way into into his sinues. 

The hinges creaked as Bobby and the dogs padded out of the office and onto the shop floor. Dean allowed himself another long moment to savor the coffee, and then followed along. Bobby was setting up the space heater, but the air inside was still chill. Dean saw his breath form a thin film of droplets that hung in midair. He wished he'd worn a sweater underneath his overalls, but figured he'd warm up soon enough when he got to work. He looked around. The place was far bigger on the inside – at least two or three times longer and wider than the outside could tell. 

He espied Jody's vehicle parked along the far wall. A white SUV with SHERIFF painted across the side in big block letters. Bobby had unplugged the heater and was hauling it and the long, snake-like cord over towards it. The much-patched cord slithered over concrete. Bobby caught up the end and plugged it in. Dean stifled a shiver as he drew near. Why was this corner so damn cold? It seemed chillier than outside.

“She brang this in yesterday, when you were out,” Bobby explained. “It's a bit of a puzzle.”

“Get that heater switched on already. I'm frozen,” Dean complained. He stomped his boots. He like to have froze this morning. 

“Got it cranked up to high. Don't seem to make a difference.” Bobby was scrabbling around for something on the workbench. Both of the dogs hung back, and Brine emitted a low growl. Whatever this was, it wasn't good.

Bobby was holding up a big old torque wrench. He wagged it towards Jody's SUV and then warned, “Stand back.” Dean was too puzzled to be cold. What the heck was he doing? Bobby cinched up his sleeves, narrowed his eyes and let fly with the socket wrench, aiming right square at the front windshield.

Cringing, Dean kept watch, because this was fucking badass. The wrench flew, end over end, but as it neared the vehicle, a high-pitched noise, oddly like a giggle, split the air. Defying the laws of physics, the wrench suddenly reversed course and, if Dean hadn't had quick reflexes, would have taken off his head. Instead, it impacted on the wall, taking down the _Busty Asian Beauties Pin-Up_ calendar in the process. “Awww, ladies,” sighed Dean. He turned back to his boss. “Bobby, is that what I think it is?”

Bobby nodded. “Thinkin' we got ourselves a good, old-fashioned poltergeist.”

“Awesome!” Dean exulted. “I've never seen one before.”

“They ain't common,” Bobby told him. “Had one round about 10 years ago, back before you started workin'. Messy things.”

“What do we do?” asked Dean, as he mournfully contemplated the countenance of the unlucky Miss July. “This is personal now. Nobody messes with my Beauties!”

“I asked for a couple volumes from the liberry. Meantime, you work on old lady Higgenbotham's car. She's claiming she's seeing gremlins out on the fenders again.”

“Thinkin' Old Lady Higgenbotham needs to lay off the sauce,” Dean cracked.

“Be that as it may, you take a looksee.”

Dean gathered his tools and, casting a side-eye at Jody's haunted SUV, strode over to take a look at the Higgenbotham car. It was a sleek ’58 Caddy Eldorado convertible, with grill up to here and tail fins out to there. And it was cherry, like it had just rolled off the shop floor. (The late Mr. Higgenbotham had been keen on vintage cars.) But lately, it had just been one thing after another, some wiring going here, a tail light out there. It could have been just a coincidence, but the lady swore up and down that she’s spotted a tiny, clawed creature out lurking on the luxurious tail fins, and that’s why she had taken it into Bobby’s. 

Just then, the office door got kicked open, and a tall kid, badly in need of a haircut, stumbled in, struggling under a towering stack of dusty old books. His long arms were akimbo with additional rolls of ancient parchment tucked in his elbows.

“Sammy!” hailed Dean, rushing over to give his kid brother a hand to get the tomes situated safely on a work bench. 

Sam, red-cheeked, puffed with relief. “Thanks, Dean! Check this! When Bobby called and said you guys had a poltergeist, I just picked up everything I thought could help.”

Dean idly thumbed through the Chilton Guide to Spectral Spirits and Mischievous Entities, 1954 edition. “Well, looks like you were pretty thorough. It’s rare enough even Bobby was out of ideas.”

“Is it the Caddy?” Sammy asked, running a hand down the car's the bright blue body paint.

“Naw. Sheriff's vehicle's got an infestation.”

“Jody?”

“Yeah. Check this out.” Dean grabbed one of the scrolls Sam had just brought in and pitched it over towards the sheriff’s vehicle. A scream unleashed, and the scroll pitched back. Sam ducked down, and Dean reached up and expertly caught it. 

“Sweet!” said Sam, though it was unclear whether he was reacting to the poltergeist or to Dean’s awesome catch. 

“You got some time, Sammy? I was gonna take the Caddy out for a spin, and I need a spotter.”

“Sure! My next class isn’t until late afternoon.” 

Gremlins could be annoying, but, for supernatural beings, weren’t by nature overly hostile. They tended to be fun-loving, and especially delighted in darting out to be seen just in the corner of a driver’s eye, or as a flash in a rear-view mirror. If you wanted to nail down the issue, it was best to have two people paying attention. 

Dean grabbed the keys, started the engine (which purred like a kitten) and turned around to find a couple of unwanted passengers had just leapt into the back seat.

“Brine! Scorch! No dogs in the car.”

“Aw, can’t they come along?” Sammy whined, reaching over to give Scorch a good scritch behind the ears. “You’re good dogs, aren’t you? You’re the best dogs!”

“Sammy!” But Dean found it difficult to refuse three sets of mournful eyes pleading with him. 

“They can help,” said Sam, folding himself into the passenger seat. “Scorch is great at sniffing out supernatural beings. Aren’t you, buddy?”

Dean shook his head, though he made no move to exorcise his canine passengers from the back seat. “Only thing they’re good at is sniffing out leftovers. All right, let’s get going.”

Dean’s mood improved as soon as he had her backed out of the garage. The morning chill had dissipated in the warm sun, and the breeze was clear and pure. Sam stuck a bony elbow up on the door as his dumb floppy hair blew in the wind. After a brief episode of putting her nose into the wind, Brine went back to what she did best, sleeping stretched out on the back seat. As for the livelier Scorch....

“Hey! No dogs in the front seat!” Dean complained as Scorch hung his front paws over the back of the bench, tongue lolling with sheer doggie happiness.

“You keep watch for gremlins, Scorch,” Sam told him, to much tail-wagging.

“He’ll keep an eye out for ham hocks. If he doesn’t fall asleep,” Dean groused.

Sam sat back and got on his Serious Face. “Dean, I wanna run something by you. You think Bobby would let me borrow one of your heaps for a night or two? I’d be happy to do some work in return.”

“We don’t have heaps. We have expressions of automotive perfection.” Dean cast an eye on his brother. “And why do you need a car all of a sudden? Unless-“

Sam took in a deep breath. “Jess sort of invited me up to see her parents’ place and you know she drives that electric car-”

“Stupid wind-up battery car,” Dean groused. 

“Dean it’s sustainable!”

Dean tamped down his grievance towards non-internal combustion-powered vehicles and rewound the conversation. “Wait. Hang on. Did you say you’re meeting the parents? Jess’s parents?”

Sam slid way down in the seat, his face beet red. “Um. Yeah.”

“YES!” shouted Dean, with enough force to wake up Brine. “High five!” he told Scorch, who lifted a shaggy brown paw for a slap. “About damn time, little brother.”

Somehow, Sam managed to blush even redder. “Aw. Yeah. So I guess it’s serious?”

“Yeah, it’s getting serious. That woman is totally out of your league. You remember that!”

“Thanks. I think.” 

“But that little Tonka toy car she's got doesn’t go more than 10 miles without a recharge.”

“It’s 120 miles actually. But Jess’s folks live in a small town, and I understand there aren’t a lot of charging stations.”

“Why did she even buy that car? Why not a pogo stick?”

“Dean, like I’ve told you-” 

Just then, Sam’s eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror and he stopped short. He jerked all the way around in his seat, pointing towards the fender. Scorch was hopping up and down, barking his fool head off. Dean slammed the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt.

“Ah, good brakes,” muttered Dean, patting himself on the back for a job well done replacing the pads. He looked around to see what all the fuss was about.

Brine lay splayed across the broad back fender. Dean had no idea she'd even woken up, he'd only seen a flash of red in the rear-view mirror. Her large, soft Retriever mouth was stuffed full of something dark.

Something with little claws.

Sam and Dean exchanged a quick glance, and then both leapt out of the car without bothering to open the doors. Sam put a comforting hand to Brine's neck. “Good girl! What do you got there, girl?”

Dean had already popped the trunk. “I know Bobby must have – yeah here it is!” Triumphantly, he grabbed a cage and brought it around next to Brine. Bobby was prepared. When Old Lady Higgenbotham mentioned a gremlin, he must have stocked her trunk with equipment.

“Now let him go. Good girl, Briney,” Sam urged, as Dean held the cage open near the dog's mouth.

Brine opened her mouth and out plopped about half a gallon of spittle plus a rather drool-y, black ball of fur. It was about the size of a softball. Brine gave the object a quick sniff, and then headed back to the back seat car for a well-deserved nap. Scorch hovered nearby, tail wagging, nose taking it all in.

“Hm. Guess maybe Bobby keeps those dogs for a reason,” Dean muttered. “Hey, little dude,” he told the cage.

The little black ball of fur began to unroll a bit, and two eyes blinked open.

“I've never even seen a gremlin up close!” Sam whispered.

“Didn't think it'd look so much like a Tribble.”

“A what?”

“This is a lucky break,” said Dean. He had heard tales of disassembling a whole car looking for one of these elusive creatures. 

The small ball of fur coughed, and then uncurled a bit more. The creature hacked up a drop of what was probably dog drool, and then stood up on it's hind legs and shivered like a cat flecking off an unwanted bath. 

And then it began to trill, a cascade of high-pitched chittering that made no sense, but did not sound at all pleased.

“Well, I'm sorry, little dude,” Dean apologized. “But you've been giving Mrs. Higgenbotham a hard time. Let's get you back and see if we can get you cleaned up.”

“You're keeping him, Dean?” Sam asked as the brothers got back into the car. 

“Well, I'm not sure what you do with 'em?” He'd read a bit about gremlin extraction, but it seemed they were always a little vague about what came next. He'd ask Bobby about it later. Maybe after lunch. Gremlin hunting was hungry work!

***

After a pit stop at the best goddam hamburger stand in Kansas (where they conducted important research by determining beyond a shadow of a doubt that gremlins really dig chili fries, especially with extra onions, and on top of that gremlin farts are pretty damned toxic), and a swing by the college to drop off his dopey kid brother, Dean and the dogs and his new companion drove Mrs. Higgenbotham's car back to Bobby's. Before Brine had nabbed him, Dean’s little fry-loving friend had shorted out one of the tail lights, so he would need to set it right before they gave it back to their customer.

As he pulled up to the shop he could see quite a commotion going on. Well, that was no surprise. He also saw Rufus’s tow truck parked outside. Rufus was one of Bobby’s oldest friends, but he always seemed to bring in the craziest repair jobs, like that Miata that had gotten infested with fairies (his wily boss had just lured them out with a sprinkle of salt). And then there was that time he brought back a VW van that had been abducted by aliens! Boy, they were cleaning up for days on that one.

Scorch and Brine hopped out and made a bee-line for the bushes to mark their territory. Grabbing the sack with an extra hamburger (in case he needed a snack later this afternoon) and the cage with Spike (OK, so they’d named the gremlin, no big deal), Dean followed the sounds of caterwauling to find Bobby and Rufus standing beside a battered old Chevy, bickering like an old married couple. Dean sized it up with a practiced eye. Impala, probably late 60s. It didn't look like much, but he bet it would polish up with some restoration and a coat of paint.

“I tell you, Bobby, this thing is possessed! You gotta help me shoot it and bury the corpse. It’s the only way!”

“My sweet aunt. Rufus, you’re out of your damn mind. And we ain’t scrappin’ a classic like that Impala just because you can’t figger out what’s wrong with her.”

“I tell you, it’s a demon car! Unless you have a Catholic priest on call, we gotta crush this thing.”

“Wait, what?” said Dean. “Possessed? You mean like in that Linda Blair movie?” He glanced over at the Impala, which obviously needed work, but … possessed? 

“Mark my words!” intoned Rufus, holding an index finger of divine judgement aloft. He blinked at Dean. “Wait, is that what I think it is?” he asked, pointing to the little cage.

Dean broke out a grin as he proudly held the cage up for Bobby and Rufus to gather round. “This is Spike! I mean, we caught a gremlin! Sammy and me. Oh, and the dogs.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” said Rufus. 

“Old Lady Higgenbotham?” Bobby asked, raising his cap to scratch his head in wonder. Dean nodded. “That’s good work, boy. I didn’t fancy having to rip that car apart having to chase that one down.”

“I haven’t seen a real one in a dog’s age,” marveled Rufus.

“He likes chili fries!” Dean told them.

Bobby huffed. “Now, don’t you go spoilin’ it! And namin’ it. We don’t need any more critters around to feed.”

“Well, that’s kinda what I was wondering, Bobby. We caught him – now what do you do with him?”

Bobby and Rufus exchanged a very puzzled glance. “That’s a damn good question,” Rufus finally said.

“I sure don’t remember,” Bobby confessed. “It’s been a while. Maybe need to get our liberry-an on the case.”

“I’ll call Sammy.” Dean’s brother would be delighted – more books! “Hey, I got an idea, maybe I could take that Impala for a spin, head out to the college, see what I can see.”

Rufus, who always seemed to be followed by a dark cloud anyway, grew even darker. “Not a good idea! I tell you, that car is demon-struck!”

“Yeah, we heard ya. Linda Blair puking pea soup. Now, why don’t you make yourself useful, Rufus, and help me root this poltergeist?” Bobby suggested.

Rufus scoffed. “You’re letting some scrawny poltergeist give you trouble, Bobby?” 

“Dammit Rufus, let me show you before you go getting’ judgmental! He’s bein’ a real pill!” Still squabbling, Bobby led Rufus over to Jody’s vehicle. Despite Rufus’s protestations, before long, they were both ducking various tools being hurled their way by the mischievous spirit. 

“Maybe he was a pitcher in his other life,” Dean mused. He cast an appraising glance at Rufus’s supposedly “possessed” Impala. It had occurred to him that, if it checked out, it might be a nice car for Sammy to drive, once Dean had a chance to do a bit of work on it. If Jessica was as brilliant as he suspect, she’d clearly be impressed by this icon of automotive engineering. 

Pushing such thoughts aside for the time being, he went to gather some tools to finish work on Mrs. Higgenbotham’s Caddy. Before they had captured Spike the Gremlin, he had managed to fritz the wiring in the back left turn signal, so Dean meant to put it right. He set the bag with his hamburger down next to Spike’s cage as he rummaged through his toolbox. 

Something was making a crinkling sound. Dean turned and was surprised to see Spike not only out of his cage, but wrestling with Dean’s hamburger sack.

“Hey, I was saving that for later!” Dean scolded, snatching away the bag. Spike chittered at him. “Look, there’s no fries left, you ate them all.” He opened the bag to demonstrate. Before Dean could stop him, Spike leapt into the bag head-first and emerged hauling the paper-wrapped burger.

“You think you like burgers too?” Dean asked, now more intrigued than annoyed. “Here’s let’s try this, little guy.” He pulled a couple of napkins out of the bag, and then dug out a (fairly) clean pocket knife. He cut off a slice of the end of the bacon burger and placed it on a napkin. It was nearly as high as Spike! “Looks like you’re gonna need a bigger mouth, huh?” he laughed as the gremlin regarded the treat.

Spike stared down the burger for a long moment, and then unhinged his bottom jaw so as to size his mouth with the giant (to him) burger, and, as Dean watched, swallowed it all in one gulp.

“Wow! Another burger fan!” said Dean. Spike was pretty awesome, even if Bobby didn’t think they needed another pet around here. 

Spike put his jaw back together, and then unfolded a dark pair of wings and fluttered up to a higher shelf. “Wait, you can fly?” Gremlins were freaking awesome. Spike perched right next to the Busty Asian Beauties calendar the poltergeist had ruined. Spike chittered mournfully. “Yeah, that stupid ghost ruined Miss July,” Dean commiserated. The comment, coincidentally, was punctuated by Bobby and Rufus shouting as the naughty poltergeist lobbed a hammer at them.

Spike chittered a bit more and then took wing, hovering over Miss July’s sadly torn face. He touched the rip with his claws and something happened. The paper along the tear began to sparkle a little, and then, like magic (as that’s quite probably what it was) the photo was knit back together. 

“Well I’ll be damned!” Dean traced a finger over the page, which was smooth to the touch, as Spike chittered in triumph. “Wait, so you can fix stuff as well as break stuff?” Spike chittered something, which Dean felt probably meant that yes, he could indeed fix broken stuff.

“Maybe you can give my a hand with Old Lady Higgenbotham’s car?” Dean held out a hand, and Spike flew over to perch on it. “Let me show you.” He opened up the trunk. “Now, I’m pretty sure you fried the wiring in the tail light when you were up to your old tricks. Before you discovered hamburgers and turned to the Light Side!” Spike chittered assent. Hamburgers were awesome. 

“It’s a little fiddly to get under the trim panels. My hands are bigger than yours. You think you’d be able to help me out?” All it took was a few minutes and a bit of wire and everything was copacetic. Dean happily reassembled the turn signal unit and installed it and voilà! 

Dean went to tell Bobby the good news. Rufus was just taking off in his rusty hunk of a tow truck. Bobby stood, arms crossed, shaking his head. “Bobby! Mrs. Higgenbotham's car is ready to go.”

Bobby nodded, but seemed subdued.

“How are you doing with your poltergeist?” Just then, there was a high-pitched giggle, and an entire toolbox came flying over their heads, coming to a noisy crash landing near the wall. Dean and Bobby ducked. 

“I swear, everything we done, it's just gettin' worse and worse!”

“Sorry about that.”

Bobby cast an eye up and down Dean. Spike was now perched up on his shoulder. “You decided that you're Captain Kidd now?”

Dean looked at Spike and chuckled. “Hey, just get me a bottle of rum.” Spike flapped his wings in apparent agreement.

“Gremlins got wings?”

Dean shrugged. “I guess so?”

Bobby smiled and shook his head. “Can you do me a solid, kid?” He hefted the 1954 Chilton Guide to Spectral Spirits and Mischievous Entities. “Can you see if that brother of yours can hunt down a more recent copy of Chilton for us?”

Dean grabbed the book. “Well, I think they may have the new stuff online.”

“You know I don't truck with that stuff on the internet! Nothin' like a good solid book at your side.”

Dean shook his head. “Well, at least a ghost can't toss the internet at your head. You know, like a book.” He pulled back the Chilton Guide like he was gonna lob it across the garage, but Bobby's expression stopped him flat. “Um, anyway. Yeah, I'll ask Sammy. Say, I was thinking I might take Rufus's possessed car for spin. Just to see what's goin' on.”

“That's a good idea. Hmpf. Possessed car! Rufus is off his damn fool head.” He pulled they keys off the pegboard and tossed them to Dean. “And see that thing on your neck don't give you rabies!”

Dean grinned and gripped the keys. “Come on Spike. Let's go for a ride!” He strode away, barely catching Bobby's muttering about Dean being a big softie.

The hounds were lying just outside the garage. They were probably fed up with the poltergeist's noisy antics. “Hey, Brine! Scorch! Wanna go for a ride?” He swung the Impala's door open, but instead of leaping inside, as was their normal reaction to the word “ride,” the dogs backed up and started whining and barking. “You guys have a bad day or what?” Dean asked them. “You'll ride shotgun, right, Spike?” he asked the gremlin on his shoulder. “Ouch! Don't dig the claws in so hard, buddy.” Dean and his new friend got into the car. Spike hopped up on the dashboard, looking like a little gremlin bobblehead, but he seemed tense. “Don't worry, chum. The dogs are staying here. No drool baths this time!”

Spike seemed to calm down as Dean backed out the car and got her running out on the roads. A smile spread over his face as he took the engine through her paces. “Ah, baby, that's music to my ears!” he may have said aloud at one point as he opened her up on a lonely highway. “Hey, Spike, how about you and me, we take a road trip somewhere? Maybe we could grab Sammy and just drive on down to the Grand Canyon or something.”

The engine backfired, loud and sudden as a gunshot. “What the hell.” Dean eased up on the throttle and pulled to the side of the road. “Did we get a bad batch of gas. Oh, shit!” He spotted the black cloud in the rear view and turned around in his seat as the car came to a halt. “Oil smoke, god damn.” He cut the engine, but the smoke continued pouring out, more and more. “What the hell?” He grabbed the door handle, but the door and it wouldn't move. He pulled at the toggle, which was stuck down in locked positing.

Spike was back on his shoulder now, claws digging in.

“Dude it's OK,” Dean muttered. He started to cough. 

The black smoke was now inside, filling up the car. Where the hell was it coming from? It spewed up from the floor, smelling of filth and rotten eggs. Breathing hard now, Dean threw his body over towards the passenger door. Great, that was locked too. He couldn't see outside any more. 

He couldn't breathe. 

The window! His lungs burning, he leaned on the crank. One crank, two crank. The window yielded, just a crack. The smoke grew thicker. Another crank. It was taking all his effort. His heart raced, his chest ached. 

His shoulder smarted from the gremlin's claws. “Spike! Get out, buddy!” Dean grasped the gremlin and shoved him through the slim passage through the outside. The small creature breached to the outside, and disappeared into the thick, toxic fog. 

Desperate for breath, Dean fell back on the seat and drew back his legs. He let fly with a powerful kick at the side window. Nothing. His body wracked with coughs, he tried again, now weaker. One more try, just one more try. He was drowning, swallowed in blackness, dragged down.

He laid back on the seat to die. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

His shoulder exploded in pain.

“Spike?”

****

“Dean!”

Dean blinked.

“Can ya hear me, kid?”

His vision cleared. Bobby? That looked like Bobby.

“I told you! I told you!”

“Shut up, Rufus. Dean. You OK, boy?”

Dean bolted up. And then his body spasmed with a cough. He leaned over and hacked up a lung full of sticky black phlegm. And then he sat for a time, panting, Bobby's warm hands holding him steady.

“I warned you! It was this fucking demon car.”

“Not now, Rufus. Dean, what happened?”

“Oil smoke,” Dean managed to whisper. “Oil smoke. Saw it outside. Then it was inside. Couldn't get out.” His shoulder really smarted, but otherwise, he seemed to be doing OK. Alive.

He twisted around to get a view of the Impala. It sat in shadow, the driver side door wide open. Poised. Waiting.

“Looks like you broke the lock,” said Rufus, fiddling with the door.

“Tried to kick out the window,” Dean explained as Bobby helped him to his feet. He remembered that part. Had he managed to kick the door. But wait, wasn't that the wrong door? It was confusing. His mind had been muddled with panic and oxygen deprivation.

“So you think it was some kinda leak in the exhaust?” Bobby mused.

“That is not what it was, Bobby. It was something-”

“Damn car's possessed!” Rufus insisted. 

“It's got an exhaust leak,” Bobby told him. “Dean found it. Probably making the drivers not right in the head. Now let's get it hooked up for tow, we can diagnosis it back at the shop.”

Rufus protested while Dean went over those panicky seconds inside the black fog. A terrifying thought struck him. “Spike! What happened to Spike?”

As if in answer, Scorch's bark sounded. Two dogs came running out of the nearby field, Brine carrying something dark and wet in her soft mouth.

“Spike!” Dean knelt down to catch his friend as Brine let him go. “Hey, buddy, you OK?” Distressingly, the little gremlin's eyes remained closed. Dean held the little furry ball up to his ear. He could just faintly make out the soft, rapid heartbeat. “Spike, it's OK. We'll get ya home.”

Bobby was standing over him, hands on his knees. “Found your friend, huh? He's probably just knocked out from the fumes. We'll get a heat pad under him and let him sleep it off.” Dean cradled Spike, and then carefully tucked him into an inside pocket of his jacket to keep him warm. “You'll be OK. We'll get you some burgers!” Scorch and Brine were both sniffing around inquisitively. Dean noticed they were still giving the Impala a wide berth. Whatever it was they smelled, whatever had tried to asphyxiate him, it was still there. 

They got the Impala hooked up for a tow, and then Dean and the dogs crammed into the cab of Bobby's old Ford pickup and followed along. When the got back to the garage he was surprised to see Jessica's car parked there. Sam unfolded himself from the tiny car and waved at them. It was a big production introducing Rufus to Jess. Bobby and Rufus agreed that Sam had somehow blundered into the prettiest girl in town (even if she did drive one of those disreputable electric cars). Jess took it well, though Sam was blushing from ear to ear. It made Dean's day to see him so happy.

“But you didn't say why you stopped by,” said Dean. “Your car still running OK, Jess?”

“Those electric engines. Can't trust 'em!” Rufus declared.

“My car is fine,” Jess laughed. “Bobby called us to pick up Dean.”

“But I got my car right here,” Dean protested.

“Boy, we found you knocked out and lying in a field,” Bobby scolded. “You ain't no way driving home tonight.”

“Come on, Dean,” Sam urged. “We'll go get burgers or something.”

At the mention of burgers, Dean winced and patted his jacket, where Spike was still safely tucked in the pocket. 

When Sam and Jess dropped Dean off at his place, Dean pulled a small cardboard box out of his recycling and tucked Spike inside, wrapped in a blanket next to a heat pad set on low. Jess, who was studying nursing, took out her stethoscope and declared that Spike's heartbeat sounded strong and steady. “It's just hard to say with anoxia,” she confessed. “I'd say for now just keep him warm.” She glanced up at Dean. “Did you want me to take a look at that for you while I’m here?” she asked, pointing towards his shoulder.

“Look at what?” he muttered. He glanced down at his shirt and realized for the first time it had what looked like scorch marks on the sleeve. He tentatively raised and lowered his left arm. “I think I’m OK.” 

He finally got them out of there, promising to give them a call if he felt faint or nauseous.

After they left, he went into the bathroom and removed his shirt. He gaped at his reflection in the mirror.

There was now a raised red mark on his left shoulder, the exact size and shape of a human hand.

That night, when finally sleep came to him, he found himself descending, falling and falling into a cold blackness.

***

The next morning, Dean dimly remembered troubled dreams, and then, out of the darkness, a hand appeared. He woke suddenly to discover Spike had awoken, crawled out of his box and into the bed to nestle underneath Dean's chin. It turned out Spike liked eggs and toast and especially bacon. Dean was cheered to discover his little friend's appetite had returned with a vengeance. He also swallowed most of his very own mug of coffee. He liked it black, just like any sensible person.

When Sam and Jess came to pick him up, a very jaunty Dean had Spike once again perched on his shoulder. 

“Didn't take you for a pet lover, Dean,” Jessica joked as she drove the oddly silent vehicle. 

“Spike's not a pet!” Dean scoffed. “He's my buddy! Right, Spike?”

As if in answer, Spike unhinged his jaw and issued a belch. 

Sam and Jess had to get to class, so they dropped him at Bobby's a bit earlier than usual. It was OK, Dean had the keys. Jess fussed over Dean returning to work so soon, and made him promise to get to the emergency room if he felt faint. Sam just sighed a lot and stared dreamy-eyed at Jess. Idiot.

Dean let himself in the back. No dogs around, so Bobby definitely hadn't made it in yet. It was awfully quiet. Come to think of it, there weren't even any birds singing, or insects buzzing around. Dean felt the hairs prick up at the back of his neck, but Bobby's office looked perfectly normal, cluttered as ever.

Then he made his way into the garage and saw things were not normal at all.

One one side, Sheriff Mills's vehicle lay crushed against the wall, looking for all the world as if it had been T-boned by some maniac going umpty miles an hour in a school zone.

On the other side, not showing a single scratch but definitely guilty as hell, the Impala stood, staring at him with malevolent eyes. 

Dean grabbed a tire iron. “You did this, didn't you? That's Jody's car, you asshole! You hurt her car, you nearly killed my friend. I'm gonna get you if it's the last thing I do!”

He could have sworn the car smirked at him.

“What is all the hoot and holler!” came Bobby's voice, shouting to be heard over the fierce yapping of Scorch and Brine. The dogs charged into the room and then pulled up short at the Impala, standing with teeth barred. 

Dean pointed the tire iron at the sheriff's car. “Look what it did to Jody's car!” 

Bobby whistled low and walked over to survey the damage. “What the blazes? I swear Rufus and I locked up last night.”

“It's the Impala! It's possessed.”

“Now, don't start talkin' nonsense. Worse than Rufus,” Bobby huffed. 

Dean was still waving the tire iron. “That car is the devil! It may as well have 666 on the license.”

Bobby eyed the Impala, and then shifted his eyes to Dean's hand. He reached out. “Dean. Hand it over.” To Dean's surprise, Bobby grabbed the tire iron and began to wave it at Jody's vehicle. Dean started. 

Bobby side-armed the tire iron, sending it right at Jody's ruined door. 

It bounced off and landed on the floor.

Dean and Bobby shared a glance. “The poltergeist!” they chorused.

Though he already knew the answer, Dean asked, “Did you and Rufus manage to banish it yesterday?”

Bobby shook his head. “Nope! And now we got the two vehicles fightin'? Is that even possible.”

“Not just possible. Whatever's got hold of that car just killed your poltergeist.”

Bobby stooped down and grabbed the tire iron. He gripped it tight. He looked up at Dean. “OK. Let's try it your way. You got any books on demon possession?”

“On it!” said Dean. They got some heavy chocks under the Impala's tires so at least that car couldn't go anywhere, and then Dean headed for the book stacks in Bobby's office.

Research wasn't exactly his forte, but he brewed himself a pot of strong coffee and (after removing several piles of books) sat himself down on Bobby's threadbare couch and started to read. Spike alternately perched on his shoulder (almost as if he were reading along) and played with the dogs (who were now refusing to go into the garage). Finally, Spike and the hounds all piled on the couch next to Dean for a nap. Dean rolled his eyes and scratched Brine's greying muzzle. 

Most of the material had to do with possession of people. All that _Exorcist_ stuff about priests and Latin chants. Dean read a couple of stories about objects that had gotten possessed. No cars, but when you were talking about the whole history of the world, cars were pretty new! Mostly the demon-haunted object were dolls, or paintings, or masks, other things that at least resembled humans, but there was a possessed well and a box. Well, if a ghost or a gremlin could get into a car, why not a demon? They just had to figure out how to get that thing out of there. Would incantations in Latin work? Dean wasn’t certain a car could hear, even if they did find the right words.

Dean was idly leafing through one of the grimoires, something called the _Lesser Key of Solomon_ , when he came across an illustration that took up the entire page. Spike was in his lap, standing right on top of the drawing, chittering with excitement. “My Latin ain’t great. What does it say?” Dean asked the gremlin. The design was basically a seven-sided star inside a circle with a bunch of arcane sigils scribbled all over the place. He spotted the words _“Laqueum Diaboli.”_

“OK, we gotta ask Bobby about this.”

He found Bobby not underneath a car or deep inside an engine, but rather leaning against the wall, speaking on at least three different telephones simultaneously. 

Bobby held up an index finger. “All right, Rufus. I’ll be up there in a jiffy,” he told the phone on his shoulder, and then successively hung up the rest, trying not to get twisted up in the chords as he replaced the receivers on the walls. “What a day! What do you have there, boy?”

“Have you ever seen this before?” Dean held the book out. Bobby perched his reading glasses on his nose and squinted at the page. “Ah, you found a Devil’s Trap! Haven’t used ‘em myself.”

“So you’ve heard of it?”

“The concept is you paint one of those on the floor or up on the ceiling (if you think you’re Da Vinci) and then you lure a possessed individual inside. They won’t be able to break out, as long as the lines are intact. That’s the key! You gotta paint yourself some good, thick lines.”

“OK, here’s what I’m thinking, Bobby. We get one of these traps here on the floor, we can tow that Impala over on top of it, and at least it can’t do any more mischief overnight.”

Bobby grinned, pleased. “That’s usin’ your head! I like that. Now, I gotta take off up north to help Rufus.”

“Sounds like you got an all points bulletin?”

“Haunted school bus! It’s givin’ a scare to some of the kiddies.”

Dean shook his head. Nothing worse than the angry ghost of a school bus driver! “Be careful.”

“Maybe you could get to paintin’, and I’ll be back to lend a hand tonight.”

“Sounds like a plan.” 

“You had quite a scare yesterday. You don’t do anything ‘til I’m back, you hear?”

After Dean swore up and down and sideways he would keep to painting circles on the floor, Bobby got in his truck along with Scorch and Brine (who seemed relieved to be away from the Impala) and headed out. Dean took out some bottles of spray paint. 

He and Spike leafed through the grimoire to find the best design. There were several pages of various devil’s traps. Dean finally decided to stick with one of the more elaborate ones, as he wanted to be sure this demon was trapped but good. Next he selected a clear patch of the floor and got out the mop and broom and even a scrub brush to make sure it was neat as a pin. Fortunately, Bobby kept a clean shop, so it was pretty swift work.

Dean shook up a fresh can of spray paint and grinned at the Impala. “Hey, asshole, see what you think of this!” he taunted as he started off with the wide circle that would comprise the outer boundary. He was pretty good at drawing circles freehand, but he wanted to get this right, so he slowly walked the perimeter, bottle in hand. He had just reached the bit where the lines met when he was startled by a mechanical growl behind him. He whirled around in time to see the Impala’s headlights flash on and off. 

Dean made an “I'm watching you” gesture at the car and grabbed some measuring tape. He had Spike hold one end, made seven tick marks around the spray paint circle in pencil so he could start drawing in the star. Some of the illustrations in the book looked a little sloppy and there was no way he was making that mistake. Spike started chittering and flipping pages in the grimoire. 

“What? No, that's not a good one. That's only got five points. Dean Winchester doesn't make any fucking candy-ass five point devil's traps. This is gonna be epic.” Spike chittered something that was probably _“Fuck you”_ in Gremlin-ese, his wide blue eyes filled with scorn. 

“Look, Bobby's gone so I'm the boss, and we're doing this job right!” 

Spike chittered protestations, but was willing to hold one end of the tape steady so Dean could use it like a straight edge to carefully pencil in lines of the star. 

After he assured himself that every line was straight and true, he picked up the spray can and gave it a good shake.

The Impala revved.

Spike went batshit, flying in circles and chittering a blue streak. 

Dean waved a hand at the car. “Stop that shit,” he told it, using his best Dad Voice.

He held up the spray can again. He looked at the car, looked at the can, and looked at the car. Then he shook the can.

The car revved, now spinning its tires at the chocks holding it back.

“God dammit!” 

He tried this another time, and then again. Every time the can shook, the car came alive. “OK, OK, you wanna go? Suck on this!” As Spike fucking freaked out, Dean sprayed the straightest line ever sprayed. The car revved, tires now smoking against the rubber chocks. “There, how you like that?”

There was silence. Dean grinned in triumph, and turned his back.

The impala revved.

“Here, hold this,” he told Spike, handing the gremlin the spray bottle, which caused the little creature to slowly spiral towards the floor, fluttering madly with the bottle in it's small clutches. Dean charged over to the workbench to grab a pair of pliers, and soon had the Impala’s battery disconnected. “There. You ain’t going anywhere,” he told the car. “You know, Bobby's got a tire boot in back, and I know how to use it!”

“Who are you talking to?”

Dean whirled.

“Dean! Whoa!”

“Oh, it’s you,” Dean laughed at Sam, who was carrying a stack of books in one hand and a sack of burgers in the other hand. “You checkin’ up on me?”

“I brought lunch.” 

“Is it that time already? I must have lost track.” Dean grabbed the sack of burgers, shooing away Spike, who wanted to steal a french fry.

“Wow, what happened to the Sheriff’s car?” Sam asked, pointing to the sad wreck.

“Demon car is what happened,” said Dean, pointing a fry at the Impala. 

“Shit! Does Jody know?” Sam wandered over to survey the wreck, poking here and prodding there.

“Yeah, Bobby gave her the good news/bad news call.”

“What's the good news?”

“Poltergeist is gone!”

Sam, who'd been trying to get the SUV's rear hatch door closed again (and not having much luck – the frame was now squeejawed), looked up and laughed. “Oh, right!” He played with the door a bit more. “What happened to the spare tire?”

“Hrgh?” asked Dean, mouth full of burger. 

“What happened to the spare tire?” Sam pointed to the bar where it was usually mounted on the rear door.

“Dunno,” Dean admitted. It hadn't exactly been a priority, what with haunted school buses and demon cars. “Prob'ly rolled away.” 

Sam shrugged his wide shoulders and ambled over to the center of the garage to survey the devil's trap. “Whoa, look at that.” He squatted down to check out the grimoire Dean had left open on the floor. 

Spike, who'd crawled inside the sack of burgers to raid French fries, flew out of the sack and, chittering madly, landed on the book. He ranted and raved at Sam for a bit, and then turned the page to what was evidently his favorite devil's trap design.

“What's up with your pet?”

“He's not a pet!” Dean told him. “Spike, I told you, we're going with my design! We've been arguing about what's the best devil's trap.”

Sam rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Dean, how exactly do you argue with a gremlin?”

Dean stuffed the last couple bites of burger into his mouth, licked his fingers and then wiped his face with a paper napkin. “He gets pretty worked up about the strangest stuff.”

Much to Spike's displeasure, Sam had turned back a couple pages and was tracing a finger over the Latin text. “So the concept is you'll trap the Impala demon in this thing?”

“Yep, and I'm pretty sure we're on the right track. Look.” Dean grabbed the spray bottle and stared at the Impala. He gave it a good shake, and then started spraying another line of the star.

The car revved.

Sam yelped, grabbed the book and Spike and leapt away. “Dean!”

“No worries, Sammy. Bobby and I got him up on chocks.” As if in response, the car gave a quick rev, sending puffs of smoke out from where tire met rubber chock. “Those are rated for semi trucks, pal,” Dean told the Impala. “Don't even try it.” 

Sam untangled himself from Spike and the grimoire. He stood and dusted off his pants. “Jeebus! That's creepy!”

Spike flew over and perched on Dean's shoulder while he continued spraying out the star. “Can you get back to the page I marked? I gotta start painting in the squiggles soon.”

“Squiggles?” Sam put the book down and flipped through the pages. “You mean the _sigils_?”

“Yeah, the squiggles.”

The Impala revved, tires squealing. “Oh shut up!” Dean told it.

Sam found the correct page (after a bit of a squabble with Spike) and then Dean tried to replicate one of the squiggles, which immediately got both Sam and Spike chittering at him. “No, no, you need to swoop here!”

“Chitter-chitter-chitter-chitter!” said Spike.

“You guys think you could do a better job?” said Dean, handing the spray paint bottle to Sam.

“Actually, yeah, we could,” Sam answered for himself and the gremlin. Spike actually fluttered over to sit on Sam's shoulder. Traitor!

“Then make yourself useful. I'll go – I'll go look for Jody's spare tire!” Dean stormed away as Sam and Spike started to paint the squiggles. Also, the stupid Impala demon revved again and Dean was almost too annoyed to even yell at it. “You're just grinding off all the tread. Those tires ain't cheap, you know!” 

He grabbed the rear hatch of the SUV, wondering if it was even worth repairing. The frame had been squashed, but it was possible they could straighten it out without weakening the structure. He examined the mount for the rear tire – a couple of bolts had been sheared clean off. He squatted down to take a look. The tire hadn't rolled underneath. OK, but was that ... tire tracks? They were pretty faint, but there were track marks running along the back wall. And they matched the tread on the Sheriff's vehicle.

How would a rolling spare even make tread marks? Well, it wasn't the weirdest thing that had happened this week. Dean walked along the back wall as Sam painted his squiggles and the Impala intermittently tried to free itself from the chocks. If you looks closely, there were faint tread marks circling the garage, keeping near to the cluttered workbench that ringed the shop. It ran along the left wall, towards the leftmost garage door. Aha! Bobby had leaned the hood of an old Chevy Bel Air against the wall right there. The curved hood would make a great hiding place for a tire. “Gotcha!” Dean tugged at the hood, and then yelped as something small and hard hit his cheek. 

“Hey!” He gaped the trace of blood on his fingers. 

“What's going on over there?” Sam yelled.

Dean picked up a small lug nut on the floor. He grabbed a hubcap off the workbench and held it up like a shield with one hand, and with the other, pulled the hood away from the wall.

“Whoa!” Dean was nearly run over by … a tire? “Hey, stop that! Come back here!”

Sam stopped painting to stare at the tire racing across the shop. “He went thataway!” he yelled, unhelpfully.

“Very helpful!” Dean muttered. “Damn poltergeist snuck into the spare tire.”

“Well. They'll do that,” Sammy offered. “I guess?”

Dean tried throwing the hubcap like a frisbee at the retreating tire, but of course it only boomeranged back, nearly taking his head off.

“You want help?” Sam asked.

“Just keep to your painting. I got him!” Dean wasn't gonna be outwitted by some dumb ghost. With the doors all shut, it was trapped in here with him. He just needed to throw something sharp in it's path to deflate it. 

The ghostly tire veered close to the Impala, which revved in annoyance. The tire reversed course, heading for the corner. Great, Dean could trap it there. He grabbed Bobby's welding mask and put it on, and then, holding up the hubcap in one hand and an ice pick in the other, tried to shoo it into the corner. It flung some more nuts at him, but they just bounced off. “Ha, got ya now!” Deen taunted. 

Desperate now, the poltergeist threw something big and wedge-shaped right at Dean's face. It bounced off the welding mask, but not without setting Dean back a couple steps. Another big one projectile was thrown after that, and Dean leapt on top of the wheel, bringing it down. “Ha!” he laughed as he stabbed it but good with the ice pick. “Those ain't run flat tires. You're cooked, dummy.” 

He took off the welding mask, flush with victory, but spotted the objects the poltergeist had been tossing at him. They were small dark wedges. 

Dean's blood ran cold. He grabbed one. 

It was a chock.

He looked at the Impala.

No chocks.

And then he looked over at Sammy and Spike, still noodling with their stupid squiggles.

The Impala revved.

“Sammy!”

Dean caught his brother with a flying tackle, pushing him out of the path of the charging car. Little Spike had been clawing at Sam's shirt, trying to fly him away. Yeah, Spike was a good gremlin. 

Dean fell in the center of the devil's trap and braced himself for the impact. 

He felt himself suddenly yanked upwards. Not thrown, but pulled. Well, this was weird. Was he dead? He had heard about people who died and were later brought back saying they dreamed they were floating up above everything. And here he was, feeling suspended in the fluffiest clouds. He could see the Impala down below, frantically revving and reversing, unable to traverse the boundary of the devil's trap.

“Ha, trapped you good, asshole,” Dean taunted. Was he a ghost now? Ghost or not, he sure hoped that stupid demon heard him.

He drifted slowly back down to the ground. He saw Sammy below. Oh, good, Sammy was OK! What a relief! He was standing right next to him now. It was like he could reach out and touch him.

“Dean!” shouted Sam.

“You can see me?”

“Why couldn't I see you? You're right there.”

Dean felt his face and body. “Huh, I guess I am.”

“He put you here.”

“Who put me here?”

Sam pointed to the Impala. A man in a long coat was striding towards it. 

“Wait, be careful!” Dean shouted. “The poltergeist took the chocks out!” He tried to run, but Sam was holding him back.

The man either didn't hear, or didn't care. He walked right to the front of the car and put up a hand.

The car stopped. And then it began to spew the dark, poison gas. Man and car were soon covered in the black cloud.

“No!” Dean shouted, breaking free of Sam and rushing towards the man.

The clouds crackled with electricity, and parted. The man was standing with one hand planted on the hood of the Impala, the other raised. “Begone, demon,” he intoned in a voice ripped from the sepulchre. “Leave this automobile.”

A wave of sulfur-smelling smoke poured from the car and settled on the ceiling, where it raced around, as if desperately trying to escape. The man kept his hand raised, and the smoke crackled and turned to ash, which crumbled and fell in a red rain.

And then, it was over.

The man turned to Dean. “The demon has been banished from your car, Dean.” He had eyes the color of a patch of sky on a spring day.

“Do I know you?”

The man smiled. He edged towards Dean, standing almost nose to nose. “I am the one that gripped you tight and saved you from emission.”

Dean looked the man up and down and then grabbed his hand, which he placed on his own shoulder. Yes, a perfect fit to the raised mark?

“Spike?” asked Dean.

The man nodded. “I am sorry I was unable to introduce myself before now. I am Castiel. I am from the AAA. The Angelic Automobile Association. We had noticed a rise in the number of demon-possessed cars in your area, and sought to grant you assistance. Unfortunately, this was a rather old, wily demon, and he placed me under a curse before I could reach you. Your unselfish act must have broken the curse.”

“Wait. No way,” Dean whispered. “Me?”

The angel closed the distance between them. He slipped a soft hand behind Dean's head, and tenderly kissed him. 

Dean's entire body crackled with static electricity. 

Castiel stepped back. “Thank you, Dean. I am forever in your debt.”

“Aw, it's fine.” Wait. Did that mean more kisses? Because that would be kind of cool.

“You're an angel?” Sammy gushed. Oh, that's right. Sam was still there. “I have so many questions!”

“Yes, Sam Winchester. For one thing, that's far too elaborate for a devil's trap. Here is all you need.”

Castiel waved a hand at the spray can, and it drew a much smaller trap on Bobby's floor. 

“But mine had a seven-pointed star!” Dean protested. “And more squiggles!”

“Squiggles?” asked Castiel, tilting his head like a confused puppy.

“He means sigils,” laughed Sam, who had grabbed a paper and pen and was copying down the minimalist devil's trap design.

“Oh no!” Castiel exclaimed. He stooped down and picked up hamburger sack. It now was now quite squashed, and had a big tire track on one side. 

“That's the poltergeist,” said Dean.

Castiel opened the bag and looked very sad. “There were still French fries left. I don't technically need to eat, but I rather enjoyed those French fries. Especially the ones that were coated in chili!”

Dean grinned and wrapped an arm around the angel's shoulders. He smelled really good, like the wind after a rainstorm. “Hey buddy, I know where to get some more of those chili fries.”

“I would be very interested in going there.”

“It's a date. Hey Sammy, wanna come with us for burgers?”

“I just brought you a burger,” Sam laughed. “You are a garbage gut.”

“Come on! You and my new buddy Cas can talk about squiggles.”

“Sigils!” Sam told him, and then he was heading out of the door.

Castiel went to follow Sam, but Dean held him back for a moment. “Hey, Cas, you know that thing Spike could do where you unhinge your jaw? Can you still do that?”

“Hm. Why do you ask, Dean?”

“Oh, no reason.”

And then they were out, shutting the door behind them.

Sitting alone on the floor, Jody's spare tire spun around once and spit up a lug nut.

And then all was quiet.


End file.
